Hands and Eyes
by Illwynd
Summary: In Hollin, Boromir is on watch. Aragorn muses. Warning: Has not been beta'd.
1. A question

Title: Hands and Eyes; a Question  
Author: Illwynd  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story except my arrangements of words. Tolkien owns the rest. I wish I were making money, but alas I am goofing off. Don't sue me; I'm a turnip.  
Summary: In Hollin, Aragorn muses; is Boromir young or old?  
Characters: Boromir and Aragorn  
Notes: Mostly bookverse, a smidge of movieverse here and there. Also there's a couple sentences straight from the book. Obviously I didn't write those.

Morning in Hollin. It is not my watch, but sleep is elusive and I sit, awake and trying to appear as watchful as he is. Instead of watching the lands around me, though, or the rest of our sleeping companions, I find myself studying him. He sits perched on a low stone, his body composed in a posture of alert ease- back straight, head up, but one ankle is hooked under his other knee, his leg kicked out in front of him. His eyes slowly scan the horizon, switching back to the foreground, swiveling as slowly and surely as a sentinel walking a perimeter. I sit on my blanket on the ground near him, not too close but near enough to note his every breath. His hands are the only part of him that seem restless. First they are running slowly along the smooth rim of his shield next to him. Then they stray to the lanyard of his horn that hangs from his belt. He twists the leather line between his fingers, endlessly looping and straightening it.

My mind wanders as I watch him, entranced by the motion of his hands. I find myself thinking about the place we are in, Hollin, a land where once the Noldor lived. I recall Legolas' words yesterday when we arrived here:

_"Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone. They are gone."_

I have heard enough tales of the works of the Noldor that his words are no mystery to me as they likely are to the younger hobbits. Named Wise, but perhaps Skilled would have been a better word, in these very lands they wrought the greatest of their craft. Here also they hearkened to Sauron in their discontent and desire for new knowledge, and learned from him, and when they forged the Elven rings, he guided their hands. The lesson in this is clear, and is still learned by young elves, but few enough of the race of Men have ever heard the tale. The skilled hands of the Noldor are, at least in part, the reason for this journey.

I still watch him as I pull myself out of my reverie. His hands have gone back to the rim of his shield. His thumb runs along its smoothness, and his fingers trace gentle patterns on its leather with unintended grace. His eyes still gaze out calmly across the countryside. I notice something for the first time… his hands are not young. I can see the creases of his years on the backs of his knuckles, the fine wrinkles between the fingers. I am far older than he, but for him the prime of life is passing. I knew this, but hadn't really felt it until now. I suppose this is because I had never before studied his hands; his proud tall form does not betray his age, and his face is much younger. His grey eyes still shine with the optimism and spirit of youth, and his bright confident smile is young also. His hands, I feel sure, tell the truer story. They are not hands that have spent much time with quill and ink, or with the tools of building, or even with the softness of companionable skin or other comforts. I can see the little scars etched here and there, pale against the rest of the skin, and in places the skin is darkened as if stained by ground-in dirt. His hands have been friend to his sword and shield for so long I am sure he could scrub them all day and still the scent of leather and metal would linger. He has spent his life in the service of his people, and this has taken its toll on hands that might have created beauty or given comfort, if fate had been kinder. Somehow I doubt that the trade was unfair to any but he himself. The death of our enemies by his hands may be deemed greater in worth than all the fairest works of the Noldor, and less likely to leave such a bitter legacy. Still I wonder if it pains him that age may overtake him, and leave him with only those battle-worn hands, and no memory of finer things.

I realize he has broken his visual pacing of the lands, and has turned slightly towards me, and found me staring at him. We look at each other in silence, my last thoughts resounding in my mind though my face is, I hope, blank of my vague sadness for him. I see his expression change rapidly, the watchfulness he had shown moments ago when gazing out at the horizon torn by a small worried frown and narrowed eyes. What is it that I see in his eyes? Suspicion, annoyance to be caught under my scrutiny? Perhaps his own private worries? It is gone before I can be certain, as his brow smoothes over with a little shake of his head as if casting away thoughts, and one corner of his mouth turns up in a grin.

"'Tis not a bad place to have to watch. This is a fair land, and the weather is fairer still. Whether or not clear skies make us easier to spot in the wilderness, I welcome the sunlight that shows me this." His hand leaves its work on the shield and sweeps up in a small gesture at the surrounding lands. Inside I laugh. I needn't have worried about him; anyone who knows that the fairest things are made by no hand has missed none of life's joys.

"I agree." I say with a nod.

"So is that why you do not sleep? This will still be here for your watch, later." He replies with a tiny laugh.

"In truth I think my mind is restless with worry about our task." I say, somewhat surprised at my own words, unconsidered, but probably true.

His smile falls, though his eyes still shine. "Tonight will come soon enough. Leave the worries for then, and enjoy some rest while you can get it, friend." I nod again, still meeting his level gaze. Strangely, his few words have calmed me and I do begin to feel tired. I shift to stretch out on my blanket, and he laughs softly again, adding, "I will be sure to wake you first if there is anything you need to worry about."

"You have my thanks for that, Boromir." I say, smiling as I lie down. Before my eyes close, I turn towards him and see that his eyes still sparkle as he takes in the loveliness of Hollin under the guise of his ceaseless watch, but his hands have gone back to the lanyard, unwilling to stop their nervous work. As I fall asleep, I wonder which part of him is lying.


	2. More questions

Title: Hands and Eyes; yet more Questions  
Author: Illwynd  
Disclaimer: I wish I were making money right now, but alas I am goofing off. Tolkien owns everything in this story except my arrangements of words.  
Summary: In Hollin, Boromir is on watch, while Aragorn is watching him. Same as part 1, from Boromir's POV. Apparently, things aren't always as they seem.  
Characters: Boromir and Aragorn  
Notes: Mostly bookverse, a smidge of movieverse here and there.

Morning in Hollin. It is my watch again, and everything seems quiet and calm around our camp, but still I watch vigilantly. The weather has turned bright and clear, and I welcome the change from the gloom of the last few days. The rest of my companions are sleeping peacefully on the ground around me. The hobbits particularly fell asleep quickly and they sleep without stirring. It is good, they will need all their strength for the road ahead of us, but I cannot worry about the future at this moment. I feel a calm I have not often known as I sit watching the loveliness of the morning unfold on this land. I remember this feeling from when I was just a lad, on the rare occasions that I wasn't being admonished by my tutors or trained in swordsmanship, and could get away to just walk alone in the fields. When I grew up, other duties fell to me and then I was happy enough just to find myself in the warm crush and hectic noise of my men around me at the day's end, with ale in hand and songs to sing. Too rarely have I been in some fair and wild place like this, with nothing more to do than sit and think, but on all of the times it has happened, it has brought to me peace and comfort. Here I can forget that my land lies on the edge of a great darkness that threatens it in every moment, here I can forget my responsibilities to my people, for just a little while. Here I am just Boromir, not the Captain-General or the son of the Steward, and I am glad.

I realize suddenly that I am not, as I had thought, the only one awake. Aragorn seems to have given up on sleep, and has sat up, turned towards me. At first I think he will speak, and I wait, without shifting my eyes from the distant horizon. As the minutes pass, though, he stays still and quiet, gazing at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can't decipher his expression. It seems to be an appraising and deeply absorbed look. I have seen that look on him before, when first we met, and I found it disconcerting then. This time it is no different, and I wonder what he thinks. After so many minutes, he has surely formed some opinion, good or ill. I want to turn to him and ask him what he sees that is so interesting, but I will not give in to this impulse. His eyes seem to pierce me, and the feeling nearly brings a flush to my cheeks, though I know not why. As the Steward's first-born I have had eyes on me for nearly all of my life; why should this be any different? Nonetheless, it is. Seeking diversion from his eyes, I realize my hands have been idly entwining themselves in the lanyard of my horn. As I disentangle them and stop their nervous motion, my thought turns towards home, and now I do worry. I have been away too long, and have had no news. I want to get up and rush homeward, but that would not be prudent while my road lies with that of my companions for such a distance yet through troubled lands. I swallow my growing panic, forcing my eyes to focus on the calming beauty of the land again. My hands, stilled but briefly, run along the edge of my shield, feeling its smoothness and its strength. They are more eager than I am for battle, it seems, in their restlessness. These fears would overwhelm me if I allowed them to, though I feel in my heart that no stroke of doom has yet fallen on my land. I have been concerned only with the survival of Gondor for so long I feel I would know it. I sit, reminding myself of this and gazing out at the sunlit land until I have calmed and regained control of myself. I resolve that I will look at Aragorn, though I'm not sure what I will say when I do.

At last I turn towards him, and for a moment I don't think he realizes that I am returning his gaze. I can see him clearly now. His form is folded, knees drawn up close before him, his arms crossed atop them, chin resting on one wrist, his whole posture self-contained. I feel suddenly the way I used to feel years ago when I listened to my eldest tutor, a bent and wizened man with white hair and beard. He appeared frail, but when he spoke, everyone listened. I remember him telling me some old tale of lore, and I believe I thought that he was old enough to have witnessed the events he told of, and I felt small and untried and very young. I feel something like that now, for Aragorn seems to see beyond me to some far place of sadness that I cannot see, contemplating secrets that I cannot guess. I shake off the feeling, and force myself to speak.

"'Tis not a bad place to have to watch. This is a fair land, and the weather is fairer still. Whether or not clear skies make us easier to spot in the wilderness, I welcome the sunlight that shows me this." It is the first thing my thought offers as words, and avoids all the questions I might have asked. I am not sure if I want to know the thoughts he pondered in silence.

I can see him considering my words as he unfolds himself, falling into a more open posture of ease.

"I agree." He says, nodding and smiling faintly.

"So is that why you do not sleep? This will still be here for your watch, later." I ask, though I doubt this is truly the reason. I wonder if he will say so.

"In truth I think my mind is restless with worry about our task." This reply I might have expected, though I wonder if I serve as distraction from these worries or if I am somehow among them.

"Tonight will come soon enough. Leave the worries for then, and enjoy some rest while you can get it, friend." I say, and he seems to take my advice as he shifts to stretch out on his blanket. "I will be sure to wake you first if there is anything you need to worry about." I can't help adding with a smile.

"You have my thanks for that, Boromir." He answers as he lies back on the ground. Now I am left alone again to watch over our company in silence, with the loveliness of this day for company. I want to return to that feeling of calm and peace, but now my mind is as restless as my hands. The worries he put aside have fallen to me, and I think of the long road before us, and I wonder if he will indeed turn aside with me and bring his sword to my land. I wonder if together we will be able to save my people. I wonder if indeed he will become King, and what then? Will I be Steward to this one, this enigma who has at last closed those eyes that affect me so strangely? I suppress a sigh and look again at the horizon, and let my thought drift back to the few times I have been in places like this, and I wish that I were still young and without cares, resting in the cool grass of the Pelennor and dreaming of a glorious future.

**A/N** I think Aragorn ruined Boromir's perfect day, huh. After I wrote the first part, Boromir appeared in my head and started complaining that "Of course I was fidgeting, you let Aragorn _stare at me_ and creep me out!" and insisted I tell the other half of the story. While he was telling me about it, I told him he over-thought that situation. He said "Well, that's the first time I've heard _that_." So here it is, I hope he's happy.


End file.
